


A Fate Worse Than Death

by Tonica



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonica/pseuds/Tonica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A murder suspect attacks the cops and ties them up, knocking Camille out and threatening to kill Dwayne, unless Fidel and Humphrey do certain favors for him. Humphrey is in a position to do something to save his people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fate Worse Than Death

Dwayne put down the phone and looked around the room. His colleagues were bent over their desks, looking at the paperwork collecting on the desktops. That was the real downside of his job – that paperwork. But now they had a new case and he was sure he would be able to put in some good work there. Never a dull moment. That was why he'd joined the police force all those years ago. And it was a great way to meet women. Though maybe not today.

”Sir – everyone – I just got a call from the boys in uniform and we have a new case. A man's been found dead in his house.”

Everyone looked up and faced Dwayne. As far as he could tell, everyone looked pleased that something had happened to break off the mid-afternoon doldrums. At least the air conditioning was still working – when the electricity failed it wasn't pretty – at least not for their boss. Now Dwayne could handle the heat and so could the others. Born and bred in Ste Marie. 

He reported the details and was pleased to note that he and Fidel were sent out to secure the crime scene. Apparently, the boss was going to stay at headquarters with Camille. 

”When you have a list of suspects, we'll divide them up between us.”

”Sure thing, boss. I'll let you know.”

Dwayne and Fidel and left to see the house where the murdered man had been found. 

When they arrived outside the house in downtown Ste Marie, they found a seedy, rundown place. In fact, Dwayne thought he recognized the general vicinity. Lots of disturbances here, even though most of the buildings were, ostensibly, residences. Not that many bars and gambling halls. It was the people who were up to a thing or two – mostly on the right side of the law – as far as the police could tell – but always touching the other side. 

The uniforms were waiting on the scene and Dwayne received their report. 

”The usual suspects, eh?”

He looked through his notes. Yes, he knew that man and that one too – sometimes involved in – a grey zone, you might call it if you weren't too British and picky – only rarely moved to violence. Rarely didn't mean never though and everyone had their limit. Besides, this victim's claim to fame, so far, was buying a bit of illegal alcohol and drugs and being found on the premises of a bar or club that had to be raided for minor reasons. Then Dwayne looked up and surveyed the scene.

A man's body lay on the bed, covered with blood. The bed covers were thrown back and he was lying there in the nude – but who didn't sleep that way in the hot tropical nights – Dwayne certainly did, even when, like now, he was sleeping alone. It was obvious what was the cause of death. Not that the boss would see it that way. Dwayne saw no need to complicate matters. There was a very obvious knife wound in the chest and it was clear that it was from there all the blood had come. This was the way they'd solved crimes before all that fancy forensics science had become so popular. Though to be honest, Dwayne had mostly heard about those days from older colleagues. By the time he'd started working, all those years ago, forensics had already been a fact of life.

Fidel walked around the small house, taking everything in with that wide-eyed stare. Dwayne had the impression that his younger colleague was taking photographs with his eyes or his brain. That was not how Dwayne worked. He got a feeling for the scene and the murder. Then his connections and his initiative did the rest. None of that slow, painstaking thinking. He knew the boss was the same as Fidel though. 

”So what do you think?”

Fidel glanced back at him. 

”Nothing so far. A bottle. Two glasses. He had a visitor last night.”

”Yes, so he did. No lipstick on the other glass. A natural look? Are you done now? No sign of the murder weapon?”

”No.”

”I haven't seen it either. The uniforms say they didn't touch anything. Alright, will you call the crime scene techs or should I?”

”I can do it.”

Dwayne waited outside, studying the crowds moving past the front door. He was already getting a feeling for this. Someone had been very angry. Who? Did minor dealers and petty thieves get so angry with each other? Sometimes, but not often, in Dwayne's experience. No, there had to be more behind this. But the brainy people would think of other reasons. 

They waited until the techs arrived, then watched them do their work, until the boss called and wanted them back at the station. By then, Dwayne was getting bored.

”Hey, boss. I have a list of his known associates.”

”Good. I have a few names here too.”

Goodman split the names evenly between them. He chose to go with Fidel this time and sent Dwayne and Camille separately to interview the remaining names on the list. 

It was soon clear to all of them that the minor dealers and thieves on the list didn't have much 'association' with the deceased. 

Camille had gone to see a business man who lived outside the city in a big mansion, that was clearly paid for by dishonest means. Unfortunately, this was a man with many and useful connections to the upper echelons of Ste Marie society. Mr DuChamp didn't even bother to keep up an elegant facade, Camille noted. He still looked like a ruffian, who had fought his way up from his modest beginnings on the street. 

Her questions hardly seemed to make an impact on him. It was as if she was a fly that he barely noticed. When she left again, she didn't feel that she had learned much more. Time to ask someone else. One thing was clear, she had sensed a deep dislike and distrust of the diseased – a Ron Deacon. 

The people she talked to confirmed her impression. DuChamp and Deacon had been clashing in business for over ten years. Though DuChamp had always been the more successful, Deacon had fancied himself a competitor of the older man and hadn't been afraid to challenge him. 

Dwayne's interviews confirmed the same thing. They had also hinted that Deacon had been seeing a relative newcomer from England. 

Goodman and Fidel had gone to see him. He lived in an elegant flat overlooking a fancy little square with picturesque cafes and bars catering to the wealthy European and American tourists. No matter how much the tourists believed this to be the genunie Ste Marie, the locals knew that the real Ste Marie was to be found elsewhere. Fidel noted that what was once a cafe, was now an exclusive antique shop and the bar next door had been transformed into an equally exclusive boutique. He caught sight of a scarf that would look so beautiful on his wife, Juliet. But the price tag made him come to his senses. He could find one almost as pretty in the market place and at a far more reasonable price. This – was just ridiculous.

They knocked on the door of the flat and waited. It was late in the afternoon, probably time for drinks, so they weren't too surprised when the door opened and a middle-aged man, looking like any of the relatively wealthy British tourists or residents passing through Ste Marie or staying, depending on their intentions. 

”Yes?”

”Mr George Tilney?”

The man took a closer look, his gaze sweeping across Fidel in a way that made him want to take a step back. It wasn't often that men looked at him that way and when women did it – he'd learned to ignore that long ago. Then he saw how the man moved his gaze to Goodman and seemingly undressed him too, with his eyes. Dwayne would have been interested to know how Goodman dealt with that, but Fidel just tried to fix his own gaze on a point just above the suspect's head. 

”Yes. Who wants to know?”

”I'm Detective Inspector Goodman and this is Detective Sergeant Fidel Best. We would like to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”

”I suppose so.”

He stepped aside and let them in. Fidel thought he could feel the man's gaze rake him from behind and had to draw on all his professionalism not to walk faster to get away from the man. Not that he could. They were going to question him, inside his own home. Most likely they would sit down at a table and face him across that. Or they would remain standing so close there was no avoiding that stare. Goodman appeared oblivious to the scrutiny.

”A friend of yours – Mr Ron Deacon – was found dead earlier today in his home. We were told that you visited him last night.”

”Yes, so? What are you? The Vice Squad? Can't two grown men have a few drinks together and -”

”When did you arrive?”

Tilney's gaze went from one of them to the other and back again, looking annoyed, but still somehow amused at Fidel's reaction, or so Fidel thought. Goodman merely waited for the reply.

”I suppose it would have been about nine – nine fifteen. Nine twenty, can't say for sure. We'd agreed to meet after work and I had a meeting that went on for quite some time.”

”Right. Was there anyone else there?”

”Ron, of course. No one else.”

”I see. How long did you stay?”

Tilney's face was moved by an arrogant smile and he seemed to be addressing Fidel, rather than Goodman now.

”All night. I left some time in the early morning. Four thirty or thereabouts. I had an early business meeting in Martinique.”

”I see. Did mr Deacon seem the same as always? Or was he concerned about something? Upset?”

”Not that I noticed. We had our drinks and – you figure out the rest.”

”Quite. Did mr Deacon have any enemies?”

”Enemies? What is this? An Agatha Christie? You people amuse me. Yes, now that you mention it, Ron did have an old business rival, Claude DuChamp. Between you and me, DuChamp was the superior business man, but you know how it is, have to stay loyal to your – friends.”

”And had Mr DuChamp threatened mr Deacon lately? Was there any recent cause for dissent between them?”

”I can't tell you that. We mostly kept to personal matters when we met.”

”Thank you, mr Tilney. We have no further questions at this time. If we would like to talk to you again, we'll be in touch.”

”I'll bet you will. Well, now that we have that out of the way, can I offer you gentlemen a drink? It's getting late. I'm sure you don't work this late in the evening.”

”We work for as long as the investigations demand of us, sir. No, thank you. We'll see ourselves out.”

Fidel felt his cheeks heat up. Unbelievable. This man – had been trying to -

”I think we need to find out more about this mr Tilney, don't you?”

”Yes, sir.”

Fidel almost but not quite burst out into a long tirade about how that man had – but that would have been too embarrassing. He found himself grateful for Goodman's presence. If Dwayne had been here with him, he would never have seen the end of it. It almost seemed as if Goodman hadn't even noticed the suspect's behaviour. 

They returned to the station to compare notes with Camille and Dwayne, but it was clear to everyone that so far they hadn't learned nearly enough. 

”Dwayne – did the uniforms question the neighbours?”

”Yes, sir. Just a moment – Yes, there was an older lady, but very attractive who lives next door and she said there was a quarrel or even a fight last night. His friend – you know what I mean – had come to stay the night. Arrived around nine thirty and around eleven or so the quarrel was in full spate.”

”I see. We definitely need to find out more about this mr Tilney. Camille? What did you find out about mr DuChamp?”

”From him, not much at all. I was surprised at him. He is so wealthy and successful and has so many friends in high places, but he's still just a thug. Brutal, violent – I think. No polish at all. From others – much more. He and Deacon had been business rivals for over ten years. It's odd, if you think about it, Deacon was a small time operator compared to DuChamp but for some reason, Deacon constantly clashed with DuChamp. And DuChamp didn't finish him. I think mr Deacon must have had some connections too, or he would have been dead long ago.”

”Ah, yes, that sounds likely. So we'll find out more about these two. Tomorrow. Dwayne? Did you find out anything more about his other contacts?”

”Nothing that helps our investigation, boss. Unless we find new information, I'd say we have to focus on those two. The others are just small fry.”

”That's what I thought. Alright, we'll continue tomorrow then.”

D I Humphrey Goodman returned to his beach house to find the little lizard standing on his bedside table. He sat down on the bed and began to take off his shoes. A few minutes later he had poured himself a fruit juice – warm, but still refreshing - and was sitting on his verandah, trying to relax. Secretly, he would have preferred to continue working. At least that would have been interesting. His mind needed work. Sitting like this – maybe he should read something. He was looking forward to finding out more about their two main suspects. Tomorrow they might also get the first results from the crime scene investigation, if their friends in Martinique had hurried up a bit. To be honest, they rarely did, most likely found their own crimes more important than tiny Ste Marie's.

In the morning, Dwayne was able to use his contacts around the city and find out more about DuChamp and also a bit of gossip about Tilney. 

”Boss – DuChamp and Deacon were competing about some shady shipping venture. No one knows what they were bringing in. Officially, it's just taking tourists out on fishing trips and so on, but – the tourists – are not ordinary tourists, so everyone thinks it's something else. Deacon only had one boat but – DuChamp was angry. He wanted the market to himself.”

”What about Tilney?”

”Yes, Tilney and Deacon met nine months ago and became – friendly – but Tilney had other friends and I think Deacon did too. They were trying to use each other's contacts and seemed to have a bit of a 'stormy' relationship.”

”It seems that way. My mother says she saw them one night in her bar and they seemed to be getting along fine at first, but the later they stayed, the louder they got. Another man had joined them for a drink, a much younger man. My mother thinks he's a -”

Camille used a French word that Goodman didn't understand. He had taken French in school for a while, but that – he had hardly even heard it, let alone been able to interpret it.

”A what?”

”A – rent boy? That's the British word, right?”

”Oh. Right.”

This time Goodman looked a little – tense. As if he had for once been a little embarrassed. Of course, it was impossible to tell if it was because he didn't know the French word or if the actual concept was embarrassing to him. 

”And they were arguing about him?”

”Could be. No one wanted to say what they'd heard. My mother didn't hear what they were saying, but they looked really angry.”

”So we could be dealing with a personal motive. Until we hear from the lab, I think we should just try to find out more about these two – our main suspects.”

”I asked some of my mother's friends at the bar and they are saying that DuChamp is really bad news. Like I said yesterday, he's well connected, but he's also a thug. More violent than you'd expect. Personally, I mean. As if he enjoys scaring people. He's big and strong too. Over the years, many of his business rivals have had unfortunate 'accidents'. But this doesn't look like him. Just a knife wound.”

”What about Tilney?”

”He hasn't been here for very long. No one knows him that well. Most people seem to think he's a legitimate business man, but some say he's quite rude and not everyone wants to do business with him.”

”Yes, boss, I have heard that too. He doesn't care about what people think. If they want to do business with him, they can, but he isn't too bothered. Seems to mostly rely on his wealth to buy himself companionship.”

”Rent boys?”

”No, not all the time. Just – buying drinks, taking them on his yacht.”

”Oh, so he has a yacht. We'll have to take a look at that.”

”Can't. He's rented it out to a couple of tourists. They won't be back until the end of the week.”

”Oh. Later then.”

Goodman had placed the few photos they had on the board and was reading from a horribly rumpled napkin, then picking up the marker and writing the names of their suspects, the times and locations that they knew so far. 

”We don't know enough. Or maybe we do. Maybe it really is this simple.”

It was as if Goodman was talking to himself.

”We might learn more when we hear from the lab. Did mr Deacon have a housekeeper?”

”No. The neighbour – the attractive older lady – says he sometimes had male friends staying over and sometimes they quarrelled, but not like now.”

”My mother says he didn't come very often into her bar, so she can't say much about him.”

”It seems we're stuck for the moment. Dwayne, do you think your contacts will know more about either of these men, especially mr Deacon?”

”I'll try, boss. Want me to go out now and talk to my friends?”

”Yes, do that, Dwayne. The rest of us will just stay here and discuss what we already know. Hopefully, we'll hear from the lab soon.”

”Yes, boss.”

”Camille – did your mother or her friends know which bars mr Deacon and Mr Tilney usually go to? Or mr DuChamp?”

”DuChamp doesn't mix in our circles. He might go to the most expensive bars and restaurants in the harbour, but never to one of the more ordinary ones. We probably can't go there to just check them out. Anyone would see us and know who we were.”

”Quite. We – will leave that scene for now.”

”And I haven't heard anything about where Deacon or Tilney normally went.”

Dwayne was standing in the doorway, but he turned around and glanced at his boss again.

”I'll ask about Tilney too. Maybe my friends know something.”

”Good.”

Late in the afternoon, they received the report from the lab, but didn't learn much more than they already knew. The house had been full of DNA from several different people. 

Camille stood next to her boss, poring over the results, meagre as they were. 

”We need to get DNA samples from our suspects. Not that we'll be able to get anything from DuChamp without a lot more to go on. Maybe Tilney though?”

”Yes. Fidel and I talked to him last night. We could return and then ask for a sample.”

Fidel tensed up. Naively, he had been hoping that he would never see that man again, but he should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

”Sir, shall I have the uniforms search the neighbourhood for the murder weapon?”

”They did search a bit last night, but by all means, have them extend the search. I feel as if we're not getting anywhere. Come on, Fidel. Let's go. Bring the test kit. We'll get a sample from Tilney now. At least we'll be able to match him to the finds we have so far. It might be a start.”

Fidel walked slowly out to the car, feeling oppressed. He was a police officer. A professional. He shouldn't allow a suspect to get under his skin like this. Especially since all the man had done was look. When he was out walking, anyone could look at him the same way and he wouldn't even know. But there was no denying that it bothered him. Made him feel – ashamed – somehow. As if it was his fault that this man found him so – attractive. As attractive as women did. He was aware of their interest and had at some point appreciated it. Now, with a family and a career, he had just blanked it out. It didn't embarrass him, he just didn't care.

When they got to Tilney's flat, he was there, just like the night before. He looked irritated, then began his unnerving staring again. 

”You again? Alright, come in. Can I get you gentlemen a drink tonight?”

”No, thank you. We just have some further questions. And we'd like to take a DNA sample.”

”Why? Don't you need some kind of court order for that?”

”It's just routine. You were on the crime scene the night before the body was discovered and we would like to match you to our findings.”

”And you do this with everyone who has been to Ron's place? Good luck. It was like a bloody railway station. He had business contacts and friends over all the time.”

”Nevertheless, we would like to have that sample, if you don't mind.”

”What if I do mind?”

”You're welcome to contact a legal representative.”

”Alright, I will. So you can just come back later for that test.”

Goodman stared at the man for a moment, as if considering his options, then nodded.

”I see. Well, then we shall.”

Fidel felt a highly unprofessional relief that they could leave, instead of his having to approach the suspect and touch him while he took the sample. At least he could now wait until the next day or even later. Maybe Goodman would even bring Dwayne or Camille the next time and he wouldn't have to do it at all.

”I'll contact the judge for the warrant. We'll see how fast we can get that.”

”Yes, sir.”

”We'll see if Dwayne has learned something new.”

”Yes.”

They returned to the station and found Camille sitting at her desk. Dwayne returned less than half an hour later.

”I'm sorry, boss. My friends didn't really know anything new.”

”I see. We were unable to get the DNA sample, because mr Tilney decided to seek legal representation and he suggested we get a warrant, so we have nothing so far.”

The following day they waited most of the day for the judge to give them their warrant.

”Dwayne – could you go over to mr Tilney and take the sample?”

”Sure, boss.”

Dwayne left and they all expected him to be back soon, but the hours went by and they heard nothing from him. 

Fidel called him on his mobile, but didn't get a reply. The call went straight to voice mail. 

”Sir – I can't reach him.”

Goodman's face looked distant somehow, as if he was deep in thought.

”Oh. Yes, I see. I suppose we should call it a night. Get a fresh start tomorrow.”

”Shouldn't we wait until we hear from Dwayne first, sir?”

Camille looked concerned. 

”Oh. Yes. Of course. We'll wait but – then we'll give up for tonight.”

”Sir?”

”Yes, Fidel?”

”Should we send the uniforms to look for Dwayne?”

”Well -”

Goodman was interrupted when his phone rang. He picked it up and stared at it, as if not quite sure how to reply, then managed to press the right button and heard a voice in his ear.

”D I Goodman.”

His face underwent a transformation from vague to alert, but Fidel couldn't read anything more into it. 

”I see. Yes. We'll be right there.”

He spent some time figuring out how to end the call, then put down his phone on his desk, then picked it up again and put it in his pocket. 

”Fidel – it seems we'll have to go out to Tilney's place for that sample, after all. He says he hasn't seen Dwayne and is wondering why we didn't show up.”

”Oh. Yes, sir.”

With a sinking feeling, Fidel realized he would have to see Tilney again, after all.

”Camille – you can go home. See you tomorrow.”

”Yes, sir.”

When they left, Camille was still sitting at her desk, a frown on her face. Fidel was wondering if she was concerned about Dwayne or just still thinking about the case.

It didn't take them long to reach Tilney's flat. It was in a far more expensive part of the city and despite being a flat, not an entire house, the rest of the building was quiet and seemingly empty. Fidel was wondering where the other tenants were. Not all of the buildings around it were residential either, there seemed to be several offices and businesses. Unlike in slightly less expensive parts of the city, there weren't too many cafes and bars nearby. 

They knocked on the door and waited. Tilney showed up in the doorway looking – odd somehow. Tense, but at the same time as if he was pleased about something. 

”There you are. The way you were going on last night, I expected you to be more eager to get your little sample.”

Fidel had no choice but to pass Tilney and walk ahead of him into his room, that was living room and bedroom in one. Only the kitchen and bathroom were separate. 

Fidel took one step into the room, then something hit him in the back of his head and he blacked out. When he came to, he was sitting on a chair. His head was hurting and he couldn't move. Looking down, slowly, to avoid aggravating his headache, he saw that he was tied to the chair. With an effort he glanced around the room and found first Dwayne, tied to a chair as well, but seemingly unconscious, his head hanging. As Fidel watched, Dwayne's eyelids twitched and he seemed to come awake, then the eyes closed again and Fidel wasn't sure. Turning the other way, he saw Goodman sitting tied to a chair just like the rest of them. Fidel realized that this was what he'd been expecting all along, since he came to – and even before – he'd caught a glimpse of Dwayne, but the blow to the back of his head had stopped him from reacting further.

Tilney was sitting on the bed, looking smug. 

”Amazing. Just as gullible as I expected. Still, brains are only optional, with looks like yours, Fidel. You don't mind if I call you that, do you? The faithful one. Sweet. Who are you faithful to? Who owns you? Your boss here? Not your colleague over there, I think. A shame. Neither brains or looks. As for you -”

He turned to Goodman.

”Not as bad looking as I thought at first and – more brains than I first gave you credit for. Not enough of course, or you wouldn't have walked into my little trap, but that would have been a shame. Now, let's get to know each other.”

He got up and walked over to Fidel. Not until now, did Fidel notice he had a big knife in his hand. He pointed the tip of it at Fidel's face, tracing the lines of it, getting so close Fidel felt his hot breath on his skin. Instinctively, he tried to get away. Tilney's features hardened. 

”Not good enough for you, of course. Too old. Think you're above my kind, do you?”

When Fidel didn't reply, Tilney pressed the tip of the knife into the skin on his chest, where the shirt opened, just in between the two top buttons. 

”Well?”

He left the knife where it was, and let his other hand move over Fidel's face, lingering over his lips, then continuing down to his neck and the part of his chest that was already visible. Catching him by surprise, he cut open the whole shirt, leaving Fidel's chest exposed. 

”Ah. You work out too. Take care of yourself. Why? Just for your own sake or for someone else?”

He didn't wait for a reply, and instead let the knife and his other hand move down Fidel's chest, until Fidel began to hyperventilate. By now, he could no longer hear what the man was saying. His fear blocked everything else out. 

Tilney made a derisive noise, then turned back to Goodman.

”And you? Not quite as spoiled as our pretty boy, are you? Can't afford to be, but still, not that bad looking when you look more closely.”

He moved his left hand over Goodman's face and neck, then used the knife the same way he had with Fidel. 

”Time to start working out. You know that, don't you? Or you'll lose what you have. Still, not too bad at the moment.”

Goodman's eyes looked as if they were going to pop out of their sockets. He hadn't seen this coming, though he had had his suspicions about Tilney. 

”You'd never look twice at a man like me, would you? Too old for you? Well?”

”I – uh – I'm not -”

Tilney put his hand over Goodman's mouth and pressed down.

”Sh. Quiet.”

A slight noise from the doorway, made Tilney get up and move silently over to the door. He moved quietly and lightly for a man of his size – tall and bulky. The knife was nowhere to be seen now, but instead, he had a candlestick that looked heavy. He unlocked the door and hung back. A few seconds later the door creaked and someone looked inside. There was the sound of a brief struggle, then a heavy thump as if a body hit the floor, hard. 

Goodman bit down on the slight noise he was about to make as he recognized the body. It was Camille. Even from as far away as he was, he could see that her hair was sticky with blood. She looked completely unresponsive. 

Tilney returned to Goodman, having put away the candlestick, and wiped his hands on his pants. 

”Where were we? Oh, yes, I was about to make my suggestion. See your man over there. Yes, he's awake now, I can see that. Not much to look at, but I suppose he means something to you. A colleague, maybe friend. Listen carefully now, clever boy. I will kill him, unless – you and your pretty friend over there do something for me. Don't think your people will find me, afterwards, because I have my means of – transport. We have plenty of time. Until tomorrow, I should think, if that girl over there was the only reinforcements you could count on. So, what is going to be? His life for – a few favors.”

Tilney walked over to Fidel and kissed him on the mouth, then stared incredulously at Fidel's vacant face. He slapped him two, three, four times and grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Fidel's eyes fluttered open, but there wasn't much awareness in them.

”Well? How much does your colleague mean to you? After what I did to dear Ron, my lover, it shouldn't come as a surprise to you that I won't think twice about killing him.”

He waited, then snorted again.

”You're hopeless. But that doesn't mean I can't have some fun with you.”

He returned for the knife, pressed it to Fidel's neck, then began to undo the knots tying him to the chair.

”Wait.”

Tilney turned in Goodman's direction.

”Yes?”

”Don't – leave Fidel and I'll – do whatever you want.”

Tilney walked over to Goodman, grabbed his hair and pressed his face to his own, kissing him roughly. There was no response, just a shocked silence.

”What the hell did you want then?”

”Wait. I will – I'll do whatever you want.”

Tilney remained standing over him, an evaluating look on his face. In the end, he nodded. 

”Alright. Let's try again then. This time, don't disappoint me.”

He grabbed Goodman's hair again and repeated the same maneuver once more. This time he felt a slight response.

”You'll have to do better than that, or I'll just get the pretty boy over there. There's no saying he has to be conscious for this.”

Goodman took several shallow breaths and tried speaking again.

”Sorry. I'll do better the next time.”

This time Tilney appeared satisfied. He pressed the tip of the knife to Goodman's throat, then untied him and pushed him over to the bed. A fist made contact with Goodman's head and he blacked out briefly. When he came to, he was being undressed, his wrists and ankles already tied to the bedposts. 

When Tilney was done, he got up again and walked over to Dwayne and did something Goodman couldn't see from the bed. A muffled noise of pain gave him a hint of what was going on. When Tilney returned to the bed, Goodman could see that Dwayne was bleeding from a long cut on his shoulder. The fabric of his bright shirt was marred by a dark stain spreading, making the fabric cling to the shoulder underneath it.

”I – will do whatever you want. Leave my people alone.”

”We'll see about that.”

Now Tilney was doing something to his own pants, then got on the bed, up near Goodman's head, straddling his face.

”Alright. Get on with it then.”

A low moan came from the other end of the room, making it clear that Dwayne was already in quite a bit of pain. What was worrying Goodman the most was that he hadn't heard even the slightest sound from Camille. He hadn't seen her move since Tilney had knocked her out. Was she already dead? Tilney had appeared to consider her irrelevant, so it was possible. But Goodman wouldn't even entertain the idea. Camille couldn't be dead, she just couldn't.

A stinging blow to his face, called Goodman's attention back to himself and Tilney. What he was being asked to do. 

”If you don't get on with it, I'll go get the pretty boy instead. Well?”

”No, leave him alone. I'll -”

He swallowed hard, struggling to cast his mind back to a time he'd worked so hard to forget. His eyes glazed over, but he knew he could do this. The knife disappeared from his throat, but Goodman paid very little attention to that. 

Painfully aware of Dwayne's watching eyes, Goodman forced himself to comply, hoping it would be enough to hold Tilney's attention and so spare Dwayne and Fidel.

It might have surprised Goodman, but Dwayne, who had been staring in horror at what was going on on the bed, was now turning his gaze onto Camille instead. She was coming awake, and after a moment, silently, awkwardly dragging herself away. Good move. Despite the pain, Dwayne strained against the bonds, hoping to find a weakness, but they held tight and he couldn't stretch or undo the bonds even a little.

He held his breath while Camille slowly dragged herself towards the doorway and finally disappeared from Dwayne's sight.

Only then did his gaze stray back to the bed. Tilney wasn't paying attention to the room behind him, still completely intent on – Dwayne made a face and turned his eyes towards Fidel. Fidel appeared to be technically conscious but hardly aware. He was breathing shallowly, looking as if he was going into shock.

The cut on Dwayne's shoulder wasn't too deep and it was already beginning to close, but that wasn't what was bothering him. He had looked into Tilney's eyes when he made his threat and Dwayne had no doubt he would carry it out. If not now, then when he'd had what he wanted from Goodman and – still perfectly possible – Fidel. There had been times when Dwayne envied Fidel his good looks. Not tonight. He'd never been so grateful before that he was considered a bit plain, by some. Not everyone, obviously, but at least this psycho.

At the moment, Goodman seemed to be able to hold Tilney's attention. After a while he stretched out on top of Goodman and began moving again. Dwayne looked away. He'd never imagined anything like that would happen to any of them. 

In the meantime, Camille was outside, still crawling, but dizzy and suffering from a splitting headache. She knew there was a real risk she had a concussion but she couldn't leave her colleagues to die in there. Somehow, she had to get up and get help. 

She could contact Patterson, but if she did – everyone would know what was going on in there. What Goodman was doing to save his people's lives, what might still happen to Fidel. She couldn't drag their superiors into it. Then who? Her mother's friends – she knew that her mother never let on that she knew these men, but Camille wouldn't be much of a cop if she hadn't known. If her mother could get her friends to deal with the situation, maybe this could be kept a secret. She knew Fidel would want the whole thing buried, and she assumed that Goodman would want that too, though it was sometimes difficult to tell what he thought. 

Where was her phone? Did she still have it? She wasted precious time searching through her pockets, until finally, she found the phone, then dropped it on the ground and had to reach for it, nudged it with her fingers and had to drag herself a bit further to reach it. With some hesitation, she punched in the number to her mother. She had to contact someone and she didn't have her mother's friends' numbers. Goodman might not like her mother to know, but this was the best she could do.

”Maman? C'est moi. You have to help us. We're in trouble. Non, pas le police. No, pas lui. I thought – your friends. You know which ones I mean.”

To her relief, her mother agreed to contact her friends, then began wasting time asking about Camille's own health.

”Never mind, I'll be ok. Maman! Contact your friends. Yes. Ca suffit. S'il te plait.”

Finally, her mother terminated the call, promising to get her friends to come. She was familiar with the area, but made a typically French noise of derision. Those upper class people and their dull, empty neighbourhoods. Camille mostly agreed with her, but could also see the point of clean, well maintained buildings. 

Camille tried to drag herself into some kind of shelter, but gave up and after a while, she blacked out. She came to with a start, not sure about what had woken her. Two men passed her so silently, she was wondering if her hearing had been damaged, then another man. It was almost fully dark, but somehow she was sure these were her mothers' friends. 

She was surprised her mother hadn't come here to check on her, but she wouldn't be far behind, Camille was fairly sure of that. 

Inside, Dwayne saw three men silently make their way inside the flat, all without their – host, as it were – noticing anything, still being far too busy on the bed. 

A knife flew through the air, ate into Tilney's back and suddenly, he was sliding off the bed, to the floor. One of the men made his way over to the side where Tilney was lying, to make sure he wasn't a threat anymore, while one of the others checked for any potential weapons. He picked up Tilney's knife, which was lying next to the pillow. Without looking too closely, he cut Goodman's bonds, then walked away, without a word or second glance.

In the meantime, Goodman was struggling to get his clothes back on, a blank look on his face. His face was even paler than usual, so pale even Dwayne noticed. To him most Europeans were uniformly pale, colourless. He couldn't see much difference even when they had a bit of a tan, or so he'd been told. The only obvious difference was when they were dead, but fortunately, Goodman wasn't that pale. Besides, he was moving, even clumsily as he was right now. Come to think of it, he was always like that, but tonight, a bit worse. He was also standing up, though he seemed to have a bit of trouble with that. 

The remaining man untied Dwayne, then did the same with Fidel, noticed his condition and backed away. 

Now Dwayne could hear sirens in the distance. He got up, slightly unsteadily, pressing a hand to his shoulder. Though he suspected it would be no use, he walked over to Fidel to check on him. The look in Fidel's eyes was so vacant, Dwayne gave up. He sat back down on his chair and waited for the ambulance. 

The three men were retreating towards the doorway, then disappeared without having said one single word. Dwayne thought he recognized one of them. Catherine. So Camille had been able to make contact with her mother. He thought he saw why she had decided not to contact Patterson or their colleagues in Martinique. Besides, how long would that have taken? They could all have been dead by the time their colleagues had arrived.

The ambulance stopped outside and presumably dealt with Camille's injuries, then two paramedics walked in, saw the blood stain on Dwayne's shoulder and began to examine that.

”It's not that deep, but -”

”No, it's already healing, but I'm putting a disinfectant on it.”

The other paramedic took a look at Fidel.

”What's up with your friend?”

”Shock. I don't think he's injured though. How is Camille?”

”The lady who was lying in the street? Suspected concussion, possible incipient shock.”

”What's going on here?”

That was the deep, booming voice of Commissioner Patterson. Dwayne cast a glance in the direction of Goodman, who had by now managed to get his pants on, but was still struggling to button his shirt. The suspect was lying on the floor, face down, clearly still unconscious, but also, Dwayne knew, partially undressed.

Dwayne hadn't thought Goodman could get any paler, but apparently, he could.

”Sssir.”

Dwayne struggled to his feet and finding a pair of handcuffs in his back pocket, he bent over the suspect and with some effort, managed to cuff him. He didn't come to, but at least this way, it looked as if some police work was going on.

”I find Camille Borday lying in the street outside, more or less unconscious, then I see Sergeant Best being carried out on a stretcher.”

”Sir, it's the murder of Ron Deacon. This suspect – confessed to the murder, after having attacked – uh – us and tied us up. He threatened us with a knife, and also knocked out Camille with a candlestick – over there. Shall I bag it, sir?”

”Of course. But how did he take you all by surprise?”

Dwayne had no reply for him. He had never sensed any threat as he walked in, his back to the suspect. That was a mistake he'd never make again. He merely shook his head, ashamed of himself. The big boss was right. He had screwed up.

”Well, off with you all to the hospital. Go on. Get that seen to.”

By now Patterson seemed to have noticed bruising and red marks on Goodman's face as well, and made an imperious gesture towards the door.

”I will talk to you later, D I Goodman.”

Goodman nodded, seemingly unable to get a word out. 

The first ambulance had already departed by the time Dwayne and Goodman had made their way outside. Another arrived within a few minutes, and took them away as well.

Dwayne only had to stay for a few minutes while a pretty young nurse took another look at him. He tried to get her phone number, but she just laughed at him, apparently not taking him seriously.

”You're so sweet.”

He had an unpleasant impression she saw him as really old, probably about her father's age. The older nurse behind the reception desk looked a lot more promising, but unfortunately, she also looked extremely busy. Instead, Dwayne went to check on Fidel. He was more or less out still, but looked a lot less terrified. The drip he was connected to might have had something to do with that. 

”Hey, buddy. How are you doing?”

The look in Fidel's eyes was vacant and there was no reply so Dwayne just patted Fidel's arm and left. On his way out, he met Fidel's lovely young wife, Juliet. If he'd ever wanted to settle down and start a family, he'd want to do it with such a lovely woman. This one was taken, but if there was anything Dwayne knew, it was that there were always plenty of women out there and many of them willing to meet him.

”Hello. Don't worry about Fidel. He's going to be fine. It's just shock.”

Fidel's wife nodded and tried to smile. Of course it was only natural that she was worried. 

Next Dwayne went off in search of Camille. He had an idea that in England, you couldn't just wander into someone's sickroom, but here no one seemed to find it odd. Of course, he did inform them he was a colleague. When he found Camille's room, Catherine was already there, so he only said hello and wished her a speedy recovery. 

”I'll just get going now. Look after yourself. Bye, bye, both of you, ladies.”

”Bye, Dwayne.”

It was obvious that Camille had been given a strong sedative, because she was almost as vacant as Fidel, and her color looked bad. He was hoping she would be ok. 

Since there was nothing more to be done that night, Dwayne decided to go home. He'd seen the uniforms remove their killer from the scene, so he knew that at the moment there really wasn't anything else to do. 

The following morning, he realized he would be the only one at the station. Not even Goodman was there, which made Dwayne wonder. 

The rest of the week passed stressfully for Dwayne, because as usual, when they were understaffed, Patterson always felt it necessary to come down in person and as usual, he mostly stood or sat around, ordering Dwayne to do all the work. 

When Camille was allowed to leave the hospital, her mother insisted she come back to her place so she could keep an eye on her. Knowing it was no use resisting, she gave in and had to submit to soup and all kinds of fuss and care, that made her feel about ten years old. 

After the soup, she reluctantly agreed to lie down to rest, but couldn't sleep, so she got up and relieved to find that her mother was busy in the bar, sneaked out. 

She wanted to find out how her colleagues were doing. Her memories of the night of the attack were hazy, but she had an idea that Dwayne had looked in on her looking more or less well, so she assumed he would be at work as usual.

She called to the hospital and found that both Fidel and Goodman were gone, and had probably been discharged before her. When she called Fidel's house, his wife, Juliet, picked up and told her that Fidel was feeling much better and would be back at work on Monday.

Next, she called the station and to her dismay, found Patterson there. He was answering Goodman's phone. She made a face.

”Sergeant Borday, I hope you are feeling better. When can we expect you back at work?”

”I was told I will need to rest for a week or two.”

”I see. Well, nothing to be done about that. Do get as much rest as you can. Perhaps we will see you back after only a week, if we're lucky.”

”Yes, sir. I will do my best.”

Obviously, she would have to hurry. Patterson would count on her being back after a week at the latest. Fortunately, she was feeling much better. Her mother was just making a fuss over nothing. It had been a very mild case of concussion. 

She had been hoping to speak to Dwayne, but decided to wait until later. Now she needed to hear Goodman's voice. She was more concerned about him than anyone else. Her memories of that night were sketchy, but she had heard enough to know that Goodman had to be in a bad way. Normally, she wasn't very sensitive, even though she was decidedly temperamental, being her mother's daughter. Now, however, she felt curiously touched by the poor awkward Goodman's sacrifice. Of course she couldn't tell how much he'd actually had to endure, having been unconscious during most of the ordeal. 

She considered calling him, but after much thought, decided to just drop by and see how he was, fearing to be put off or even not getting a reply at all. 

Reluctantly, she took a taxi. The staff at the hospital had warned her not to drive or take any strenuous exercise. 

Outside Goodman's bungalow, she remained standing in the sand, bracing herself for the meeting. Not until she noticed that the sun was setting, did she gather up her courage and walked up to the door. 

At first she didn't see Goodman anywhere and was wondering where he was. The door was wide open so he should be around somewhere. 

She considered going back out onto the beach again, to see if he'd gone for a walk, but she had an uneasy feeling about that. Hoping she was wrong, she walked into the bungalow's only room. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of something and whirled around. 

Goodman was half sitting, half lying on the couch, staring at nothing. For a second, she thought he was dead. He didn't seem to notice her so she hesitantly approached him. 

Up close like this, she could tell that he was alive and conscious, but she was hoping she'd never have to see anyone she cared about looking the way he did. His face was blank, but the eyes - 

Suddenly, he became aware of her presence and started violently. 

”I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. They let me out of the hospital. And I thought -”

”Are you alright?”

His voice sounded dull and expressionless.

”Yes, I'm fine. It was a very mild concussion.”

”Oh. Good. I – suppose you're -”

He broke off as if he'd forgotten the rest of the sentence.

”I wanted to see how you are.”

It was as if he hadn't heard her. After a while, he went on.

”I suppose you're wondering -”

”No, I -”

He didn't seem to hear her. His eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere near the ceiling at the other end of the room, but didn't seem to be seeing anything.

”All you can do is learn to do it well, so they'll let you go as soon as possible.”

It was as if someone had stabbed her. The pain shot through her and she suddenly became aware of her head pounding painfully.

For some reason, she never doubted what it was he was getting at. His tone made it obvious. He always sounded self-deprecating, but this time it was more like self-contempt. And the pain made her wince. 

”Humphrey – who was it? Who did it?”

He looked up as if suddenly aware of her presence, looking startled. 

”The older boys at school.”

Of course, she should have guessed. The English and their fancy boys' schools. 

”You were -”

”I know. A disgrace to the police department. But – I couldn't let him kill you. I thought – I was afraid – that you were already dead.”

”Oh, it takes more to kill a Borday. And - Fidel won't remember anything.”

”What about Dwayne? He'll never be able to respect me now. And Patterson – saw me. I have to resign. Go home. Oh, god, I won't be able to face my father again.”

”No, please. That's not fair. You saved us.”

There was no reply and Goodman kept his eyes fixed up near the ceiling. 

”Please stay. Don't leave us, like Richard.”

Still no reply. 

She sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. Maybe she shouldn't leave him alone. He needed – care. Someone had to watch over him. She could call her mother and – but her mother would never agree. Instead, she would come out here and submit Goodman to her formidable care and – how would she explain her superior's condition to her mother? Briefly, she considered getting Dwayne to come out here but knew that Goodman would prefer to be alone. She had to try. Maybe if she - 

She went outside and called her mother. This was going to be – she forced herself not to use the word impossible – so hard, but she had to try. Otherwise, she would have to have Goodman committed. If she did that, any chance she had of keeping this a secret would be gone. It occurred to her that the staff at the hospital would know. Surely, they'd know? Or hadn't he - 

”Salut, maman. I'm much better. At Humphrey's. Maman. Really, I'm fine. We need to – debrief. Yes, it's part of the job. It's not physically straining. We're just sitting down. I'll call you later.”

Unbelievable. She had managed to persuade her mother. Only now did it occur to her that her mother's friends might have informed her of what they'd seen at that Tilney's place. Maybe they hadn't. If they had, surely her mother would already have been here? She knew her mother enjoyed teasing Humphrey, but this – it might be – something her mother was inclined to ignore. It was hard to tell. Camille was hoping her mother didn't know. It would be far easier that way.

”There. I'm staying. When did you last eat?”

The vague look on his face told her he had no idea of what she'd asked and anyway, she couldn't imagine that he'd had anything since he got back. She looked around the room, finding the refrigerator. It was all but empty, containing only a can of beer. On top of the fridge was a half-empty package of crackers. Not much to go on. She considered calling her mother again, to have some food sent out here, but that was unthinkable. Within half an hour, her mother would be here herself, in person, with pots and pans and her irrepressible will. No, it would have to be from somewhere else. Which was tricky too, in case her mother found out. She would be offended. But she just had to hope that her mother didn't find out. 

In the end, she called to a pizza place that delivered to any address on the island. It would be more than half an hour until she received the pizzas, but it was better than the alternative. Then she settled down to wait. She found what she thought was a clean, but very rumpled jacket hanging on a hanger, by the bed. It would have to do, unless she wanted to take a sheet off the bed. The bed looked as if it hadn't been changed in a few days at least and not straightened out either. 

She managed to put the jacket over Goodman's shoulders. He looked at her with a vague, blank look but didn't resist her. 

When the pizzas came, she went to the door to receive them and pay for them, then take them back to the table. There were also two complimentary drinks – some sweet American stuff – and even two little boxes of some kind of salad. She brought it all over to the table and opened the containers. It wasn't too difficult to get some of the soft drink into Goodman. After the first surprise, he took the can from her and had a few sips, then put it down and appeared to forget about it. Getting pizza – and even worse – some salad – into him, was far more difficult. Not that he openly resisted. He just seemed to forget about it, even with a piece of pizza in his mouth, just stopped chewing and kept staring at the wall. 

Camille grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to face her. 

”Humphrey. You have to eat.”

A brief smile passed over his face, but it didn't reach the eyes. 

”I'll try.”

But in the end, she didn't see him swallowing more than a mouthful. Her mind skipped from one issue to another, all concerning his situation. In the end, her conscience wouldn't leave her alone until she asked.

”Humphrey – at the hospital – did they – are you -”

He didn't seem to see what she was getting at and she decided to give up. She'd call the hospital instead. As his colleague, she was quite sure she would receive a reply, even though he was her superior. 

In the end, she went to get the beer can and opened it for him. Again, he took a few sips and forgot about the can. She decided that it was enough. He would hardly starve or die of dehydration in just a few days and she intended to stay here until she saw some signs of improvement.

A little later, she managed to get Humphrey to move over to the bed, which she had straightened out as best she could. She knew she should have tried to find the linens, but she didn't know where to start looking. In such a small space, it shouldn't have been so difficult to find things, but she couldn't even guess. Maybe he only had a few sets and sent them out to be laundered elsewhere. If this dragged on for long, she would find out and send for his laundry.

In the meantime, she fixed something up on the couch, then braced herself again, for the phone call to her mother.

”Oui, maman. I'm going to stay here. Humphrey – and the others are – we need to talk more after what happened – yes, it's called a debriefing – and Humphrey said we could stay. I know that, maman, but I get the couch and the others get the floor, so -”

She broke off to listen to another of her mother's endless sentences meandering on, then tried her best to get in another word herself.

”Non, maman. It's his house. I'm not going to – The couch is fine. Yes, I'll tell him.”

There was no way she was going to tell Humphrey that her mother told him to let her have the bed. Not that she wanted to sleep in that, with the rumpled sheets and the lizard droppings. She hadn't seen any, but she knew the little creature ran around everywhere. Except tonight she hadn't seen it and was hoping it would be alright, but stay outside.

”My mother says hello.”

Humphrey didn't seem to hear her so it was a wasted effort. He lay on his side, staring at the wall, seemingly not looking at anything, but she knew he was still awake. 

She made herself comfortable on the couch and settled in for the night, doubting she'd get any sleep, but would at least get enough rest. 

After a few hours, she started. A sound from the direction of the bed made her sit up and pay attention. It was Humphrey. He was – crying. It made her feel awkward. They weren't close enough to be used to such personal expressions, or were they? Hadn't they worked together long enough, despite their inauspicious start?

She got up and walked over to the bed, hesitating. Would he be mortified in the morning? Maybe she'd better pretend not to have heard. No, she couldn't let him suffer like this. He was in pain, that was obvious. So she sat down on the bed and gently put her arms around him. He tensed up and for a second she was afraid she'd made a mistake, but then he seemed to give up and let her hold him. She knew her words wouldn't make much impression on him, so she contented herself with just holding him, until finally, when the sun was coming up, he seemed to calm down, then even for a short while, doze off. 

After that, she too, managed to get an hour or so of sleep, before the sun got into her eyes and she knew it was too late to try for more sleep. Humphrey was awake again, she noted. He was still lying on his side, staring at the wall. So she got up and tried to get cleaned up the best she could. With no clean clothes to change into, she was forced to make do with what she had. She considered leaving him briefly, to get back to her place and shower and change, but decided against it. It was too soon to leave him alone. 

Instead, she went for a short walk outside. It was just an excuse to phone her mother, then the hospital. What they told her reassured her. Something about his state must have warned them what to expect or maybe Dwayne had told them. In any case, he had been started on a preventive course of treatment. Humphrey would never need to know that she had found that out. She was just hoping he would actually take the medication. There was no sign of them anywhere. She discreetly looked through the jacket she thought he'd been wearing that night and actually found a very rumpled piece of paper that turned out to contain the prescription. So she would need to pick it up. Then maybe she could take a quick shower and get a fresh change of clothes. Or – No, it was better if she did it herself. Dwayne would only start to wonder what it was.

It didn't look as if Humphrey was going to move from the bed, so she could probably take the chance and leave for an hour or so. 

”I'm going back into the city but I'll be back very soon.”

She didn't tell him she was going to do some shopping for him as well. 

While she was gone, Patterson arrived to find his D I lying stretched out on the bed, staring at nothing.

He cleared his throat rather loudly and was rewarded by a nervous start from his police officer.

”Hrmph. Good work, D I Goodman. It's been over seven years since we last lost a police officer on the job, here on Ste Marie. Thanks to you, it didn't happen this time either. There's just one thing I was wondering -”

Goodman's face lost what little trace of colour it still had. What had Patterson seen? What had he heard from anyone else who was present? If he asked - 

”I can explain, sir. It was -”

Patterson went on as if he hadn't heard him. 

”Very clever of you to manage to disarm your suspect and put him out of commission. But tell me – where did the knife come from?”

”The knife? It belonged to the killer.”

Patterson nodded pensively.

”Of course.”

He put his uniform hat back on. 

”As I said, very well done. I don't want to see you at the station until the doctors give you the all clear. Our colleagues from Martinique will have to help us until you get back. One can only hope – but I suppose it's too much to ask that the criminals will wait until we have a full contingent on the station.”

He waddled off towards the door, then stopped and turned around, fixing a merciless stare on Goodman. 

”Oh, there was another thing. When I was young, there was an Englishman living here. A really sick bastard. He had an unhealthy interest in children. Boys. This one looks a bit like him. We shall have to check that he hasn't made contact with any boys or young men. I remember another case – a young man – only a few years younger than myself. Very sad. Tragic. The perpetrator himself – I seem to recall that he had an accident in prison. Clumsy of him. Broke his neck. Died instantly. Perhaps it was better that way.”

Finally, he was gone, closing the door behind him. So the old man knew. And it seemed he was going to pretend he didn't. And yet he couldn't help dropping a few hints. Humphrey could feel himself breaking into a cold sweat and despite the heat, he felt cold. How could he stay here? How could he continue working with his colleagues? No, it was impossible. He would have to leave. 

A noise from the door made Humphrey stare in horror in that direction. Was Patterson back? What was he going to say now? Then he saw that it wasn't Patterson. It was Dwayne.

”Hello, boss.”

Goodman forced himself to at least try to appear normal. 

”Hello, Dwayne.”

”I'm not going to stay long. Sorry to barge in like this. I just wanted to thank you. You saved my life. Fidel's and Camille's too.”

”Uh – I didn't do anything. It was those men -”

”Catherine's friends? Yes, them too, of course.”

Dwayne kept looking back in the direction of the door or down on his own shoes, anything but his superior. Goodman saw that his own hands were shaking and was hoping Dwayne wouldn't notice. 

”Anyway, I just wanted to tell you something. Something I've never told you before. Growing up, we had a stepfather. A mean bastard. He beat us all. At least the boys. The girls were older than us and moved out to live with their boyfriends almost right away. That just left me and a younger brother. He was about fifteen or so and I was a few years older. I wanted to move out too, but – sometimes my brother would cry during the night and – In the morning there were no bruises like you'd expect. He said he'd just had bad dreams. That nothing had happened. Then – one day, our stepfather had an accident. He hit his head and was never the same again. Lost his memory, became a vegetable. You can imagine how relieved we were, all of us. My brother moved to the USA after a few years. San Franscisco. I hear he's quite happy there, but he doesn't really keep in touch. But he's a good person. Everyone's – different.”

By now, Humphrey felt his face heating up. So that was that. Of course Dwayne knew. And he thought – No, he definitely had to leave.

”So – thanks a lot, boss.”

Humphrey merely nodded. They all knew. Probably Catherine as well. He was finished here.

On Monday, Fidel went back to work. He was feeling fine. Dwayne and Camille studied him closely, but it seemed he had no memories at all from that night. By then, both Dwayne and Camille were back too. She had guessed that Patterson expected it of her, but to her surprise, at least she was confined to desk duties until further notice. Humphrey, however, didn't appear on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday. 

He wasn't feeling well. At the time, he hadn't hesitated for a moment. He was able to save his people, so naturally that was what he had had to do. There were no regrets, but – he also knew that his career was over, at least here on the island. He couldn't face the others, except maybe Camille, who already knew. The others knew too, of course and that was the problem. He'd never be able to face them again. 

On Thursday, Camille came to see him. Humphrey was still lying on his side on the bed, staring at a spot on the wall, where the lizard sat, but not really seeing anything. He was slumped over, pale and she could have sworn he'd lost weight in the few days since she'd seen him last. Naturally, he wasn't eating enough. Not that she'd expected him to feel very well. How could he?

”Humphrey -”

Slowly, he moved his gaze to focus on her instead. 

”Oh, it's you, Camille.”

He sounded distant and indifferent. 

”I came to see how you were.”

”Alright. Now you have. As soon as I feel up to it, I'm going to pack and go.”

”Who will look after that lizard over there? Will he manage on his own?”

”Oh. I'm sure he will. He was here when I came.”

”Yes, I know. He was here while Richard was living here. Humphrey, please. Don't make the decision yet. At least for a few weeks. I would really like you to stay. I can't lose you too. We'd miss you so much.”

There was no reply. She wasn't sure he'd heard her, so she walked up to the bed and sat down beside him and placed her hand on his. Slowly he looked up and faced her. The look in his eyes hurt her. She felt her eyes sting and mist over. 

”Don't leave us – me.”

”But Patterson and Dwayne know. And Dwayne thinks I'm -”

”Dwayne? You know how he is. He gets something into his head and then he'll believe that until someone's proven him wrong. At least he's not prejudiced.”

”I know that. And I know it's nothing to be ashamed of. But it's not true. Do you believe me, Camille?”

”Of course I do. You explained it to me. I understand.”

He realized that it didn't help. It didn't make him feel any better. What did it matter what Camille or anyone else thought? What had happened, had happened. And Patterson knew. Who knew what he'd do with that information. If the commissioner was thinking the same thing as Dwayne, maybe he'd find himself working under cover among a group of gay men. That might have happened anyway, but it still felt – wrong - that the commissioner thought that way about him. 

Then he noticed that Camille was crying. It was unthinkable to disappoint her, but he had to go. What was he going to do?

”Camille, please, don't cry. I'll think about it, but I don't really feel up to making any decisions yet. In a way, you're right. Even if no one back home would know, it did happen. I don't regret what I did, but would you like the commissioner to know something that personal about you?”

”Of course I don't. But actually, he does. He does know something extremely personal about me.”

This time she knew she had his attention. It actually looked as if he was interested. So maybe she had to tell him. It might distract him from his own thoughts at least.

”When I was thirteen, my mother had a boyfriend. One night I woke up to see him holding her by the neck, choking her. I tried to get him to let go, but then he attacked me instead, grabbing me by the throat. Suddenly, my mother was back, shouting at him. He came at her, towering over her and she poured boiling water in his face and pulled a knife on him. She told him she would – castrate him. He was scared of her and left, but then he called the police on us. Patterson was a D I back then. When I started working here he hinted that he knew about what had happened. So I suppose you can guess how I felt about that.”

”Yes, I can. Camille, I'm so sorry. Though I have to say that Catherine is an exceptionally strong woman.”

”Yes. I'm just sorry I didn't come to sooner, so that my mother's friends could have come there earlier, before -”

”It wasn't your fault. He would have killed us all if your mother's friends hadn't come. I'm – really glad that you all – made it.”

Camille took a deep breath, but her voice cracked and she had to start over. It was a while until she managed to get her voice under control.

”You were magnificent. No one else would have done what you did.”

”I couldn't let him kill you. Can you imagine how Fidel would be feeling right now if -”

Camille thought it was bad enough to consider how Humphrey was feeling at the moment.

Then she started thinking that maybe he could at least help him change Dwayne's mind about his misunderstanding. 

When Humphrey at last returned to work, looking pale and thin, as if he'd lost at least ten pounds, she walked up to him without hesitation and kissed him on the cheek, whispering something in his ear. The smile she fired off in his direction baffled him, but at least it set Dwayne's mind off in another direction than previously. 

”Oh, that's alright. It was -”

He broke off, feeling self-conscious and foolish, his cheeks heating up. It was a while until he could collect his thoughts enough to come up with any coherent speech. He hadn't made up his mind yet. In fact, he really didn't think he could stay, but by now Patterson had been over three times and called him at least five times, shouting at him over the phone to come back to work or see himself replaced. That wasn't a bad idea, but Goodman had been unable to think of anything to say, so here he was, after all. 

When he left, if he left, he would have to leave a note. Send a letter. But if he decided to go, he would have to find a way to tell Camille and – he didn't know how to do that. So in the meantime, he was stuck. It was hell, knowing that both Dwayne and Patterson knew, that at least Dwayne had seen everything. And Camille had at least seen – something. It made the whole thing even worse. But for the moment, he couldn't do anything about the situation so he just had to make the best of it. 

If only no one started to talk. Someone from the hospital. He remembered clearly how that older, maternal-looking woman, from the north of England had stood there, solemnly telling him about the medication. Giving him a folder for victims of – he'd crumpled that up and tossed it in the nearest bin. He couldn't – wouldn't – think of himself that way. Not now. Maybe later. He could almost accept what had happened to him as a boy. After all, what could he have done? This – was just too recent, too – All he could do was deny it. Force himself to forget. Ignore how he felt. Take one day at a time. If only it hadn't been so impossible to disappoint Camille. 

FIN

© Tonica


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